


In Dreams, In Sleep

by Underunderthunder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Aziraphale's Bookshop, Demons, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, demons not mentioned in the tv show, incubus, not sure if they are mentioned in the book, will update this tag when I figure it out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-19 07:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19352725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Underunderthunder/pseuds/Underunderthunder
Summary: Many demons are fallen angels, some are horrid creatures that just popped out of the ground, and some are the evils as old as those first well-known and highly talked about Seven days.Hell would happily inform you that they have those buggers handled and accounted for, but Aziraphale and Crowley, newly free to do about however they please, discover that Hell may have misplaced one.*note: please be mindful of the tags*





	1. In Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This story depicts graphic acts of sexual violence. You have been warned and totally still have time to turn back. 
> 
> Also, I am in the process of reading the book. If I make a crucial error, please forgive me
> 
> Also, also, my computer keeps autocorrecting Aziraphale to Arizaphale. If you catch one, good job.

Life had gone pretty peaceful for Aziraphale since the End of the World that Wasn’t. Head Office was very much distant, which he learned he preferred rather quickly. Crowley came round nearly every night to enjoy a glass of a good red and some chatting about the day. Occasionally he had lonesome nights like this one, which left him wandering the quiet stacks of his books and thinking about what he should pick up for a late night snack.

After deciding a nice first edition of The Happy Prince & Other Tales and a craving for sushi, he picked up his mobile phone to order. In the past, he could have easily miracled a seat at his favorite sushi joint, but he was hesitant to try this handy skill. Being no longer connected to the others, Aziraphale chose to be mindful of miracles. He was not certain if they would beacon someone to check in on him, and after the mess they had been through, he preferred to be left alone. Except for Crowley, of course, who was always welcomed.

The demon was out of town for a few days to pick up some sort of important plant from an important dealer in an important place. This left Aziraphale searching for an important thing for him to do as well, which at this moment meant late night sushi and wine. While it was not nearly as enjoyable alone, it would preoccupy his time. 

Luckily, the loud knock alerted him of his delivery in almost no time. Adjusting his bowtie and finding enough money to cover the cost, he opened the door expecting to find the very sweet delivery boy who usually had the Saturday night route, but instead found his takeaway resting on his doorstep. Bewildered, he picked up the package and found a small, handwritten note: “To one of our favorite customers, on the house.”

“Oh, isn’t that lovely.” Aziraphale looked the note over again. “I will have to remember to thank them. Humans can be too kind.”

Somewhere in the distance, a flock of young adults made quite a commotion, causing a shopkeeper to come hollering. A few cats sang along with the noise. The lights were dimmed in this foggy night and the people caused such congestion in the streets. There was rarely a quiet or dull moment, and he loved it with all his being. 

Beaming with pride that can only come from free food, Aziraphale poured a glass of blushing rose and set his salmon roll in front of him. Digging his beautiful wooden chopsticks out from a drawer, he started into his meal. Similar to the hundreds of sushi rolls before this one, he thoroughly enjoyed the way the flavors mingled and settled. It was truly a beautiful sensation. 

Yet he found not even a third of the way through the roll, he felt strange. One might even say tired? Aziraphale had felt exhausted before, but never humanly tired. Never to the point of yawning and falling asleep in his chair. Never rubbing his eyes and feeling his body grow heavy with the thick calling of rest. 

“Dear me…” He groaned as he stretched. “Perhaps a small catnap will do me some good.”

Not even bothering to put his discarded sushi into the fridge, he stood as though his shoulders were weighted with bags of sand. His feet dragged up to his unused room, thumping the tops of his feet against the wood stairs as he made a hearty effort to ascend them. In a sorry effort to keep from falling asleep on the way up, he hummed to himself and shook his head as needed. This was a very unusual feeling and not one he particularly liked. 

Angels did not necessarily need sleep but certainly could for whatever reason they determined that was important. Aziraphale had never made that determination, so his bed is more so for decoration (although who would see this decoration was beyond him, but one could not be too careful.) There were a few exceptions he had made, mostly to see what all the hubbub was about. After a few attempts, he found sleeping quite a waste of his time and instead would use those twilight hours for organizing his tea collections and searching out rare first editions pre-Library of Alexandria. 

His bed was still made from the first time he had placed the bed linens on centuries ago. He had miracled the room to keep pristine condition so when he fell on top of the cream quilt he got a strong whiff of freshly laundered fabric. 

“Just twenty minutes and I should be in tiptop…” He mumbled to himself as his eyes shut and his muscles relaxed.

***

Sleep was strange for angels as they did not require it, so when Aziraphale woke with a blinding headache (a pain he seldom had) and an inability to move (a pain he had never had) he couldn’t recall if this was normal. On his back, his head was frozen to stare upwards and his vision was limited to the dark ceiling above where the shadows jumping from the open curtains of a lively night waltzing in a tizzy.

When the moments ticked and he still had no sense of body, he became concerned. Actually, it was beyond concerned but terrified. He tried again to move his arms and legs but found he only accomplished the smallest quiver in his left toe before he was left panting with exertion. 

A voice from the foot of his bed pulled him from his frantic thoughts. “Now now, angel, don’t tire yourself out this early. The fun hasn’t even begun yet.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d heard that voice in his time of need. 

“Oh, Crowley, my dear boy, I’m so happy you are here...wherever you are here.” Aziraphale failed to toss his body to rest on his side as he intended. “I’m in quite a situation…”

A weight dipped into the bed and edged towards him until he could feel a warm hand on the elbow of his jacket. There was a strong scent of cold air and rain, yet the hand burned so sharply that he could feel it under the heavy fabric.

The burning hand danced from his arm down to the skin of his wrist. He had never noticed how long Crowley’s fingers were until they were wrapped around his flesh and dragging his limp hand away from his body. Although he could not witness the act, Aziraphale felt his dearest friend leave pressing kisses across his knuckles.

“Crowley?” His voice came out tight, uncertain, and high.

“Yes, angel?” Crowley’s voice came from a deep 

The logic of this moment was unavailable. Crowley still held his hand so close to his lips that Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s breathe freezing the trail of kisses into place.

“Is this supposed to help with my situation?”

Sudden and nimble, Crowley’s body came into view as he straddled Aziraphale’s hips and grabbed his other limp hand. Aziraphale had never been in such a predicament, save for that mix-up at the English Court in 1532, but that was easily explained with his head squarely kept on his neck in the process. The weight of Crowley’s body against his own wasn’t horrible, more so unexpected. He tried to wiggle away but still made no advancement.

This was the first that Aziraphale could see his good friend, which made his confusion even grander. Crowley did not appear drunk but did not feel sober. His tongue slowly moved across his lips like a snake approaching prey, hungry and tempted. Aziraphale wished to push his dear friend to the side but that did not seem like an option. Again he attempted to move his left hand, currently held prisoner by Crowley, but to no avail.

“Crowley, what are you…” His sentence was cut short when Crowley pushed his hand against his mouth, letting Aziraphale’s left hand to fall forgotten to the bed. The skin of Crowley’s palm was rough and pressing against his teeth, causing a dull pain in his gums.

“This should help, angel.”

Removing his hand from Aziraphale’s mouth, Crowley leaned against his body until their faces met. Aziraphale tried to look into those dark glasses but could not see past the tint in the dark room. He wanted to find some sort of recognition in his friend, something to explain away this odd behavior. 

“I don’t-” Aziraphale started but was interrupted by Crowley’s lips meeting his own. 

Angels are very used to kissing, but often on the cheek or forehead. Aziraphale usually found that kissing on the lips, when it's a stylish greeting, was a bit too wet for his liking. He knew humans liked it, liked it enough to write plenty of poetry about it. Not that kissing Crowley was disgusting, but it certainly wasn’t expected and not really all that wanted.

“Crowley.” He managed to move his lips enough to create a word, which he was sure was lost in Crowley’s mouth. 

His friend’s lips were pushy and persistent. Aziraphale did not want to match whatever Crowley was trying to do but was unable to push away. The pressure of his lips was worse than the pressure of his hands to the point of painful. 

The relief was found when Crowley pulled away. Aziraphale let out a soft sigh of freedom before his eyebrows furrowed. For the 6000 years they had known each other, he had never been as equally frustrated and annoyed at his friend as he was then. 

“I’m not sure what you are playing at,” Aziraphale started. “I would really love if you get off me and help me with my inability to move.”

It was possible Aziraphale was not reading the situation as well as he could have. It was possible Aziraphale was trying to push away what was happening and change the subject. It was also possible Aziraphale believed that Crowley had just made a drastic miscalculation on how to solve whatever was going on with Aziraphale’s earthly body. What was possible, and most accurate, was that Aziraphale believed his friend was simply having an error in judgment. Sadly, the possibles and most accurate where, in fact, not possible or completely accurate. 

Crowley’s lips turned into a wicked smirk before plunging his palms down Aziraphale’s chest. The angel let out a pained cry but instead of pulling away, Crowley leaned forward, pressing his weight against Aziraphale’s body. He tried again to fight against it but was completely hopeless. The pressure was strong and Aziraphale was worried he was about to split open into a disastrous mess.

"You are hurting me!" His voice cracked as he pleaded. 

Crowley tsked him. 

“If you don’t want to have fun,” Crowley hissed in a voice lower than Aziraphale had ever heard. “Then you can just go to sleep.”

The last Aziraphale could recall was Crowley’s dark glasses before he fell into a darkness he could not pull himself from.

***

The sun was too far in the sky when Aziraphale woke the next morning, which wasn’t the morning at all, but the afternoon. The busy noon hour rush was his alarm. On the street below, he could hear car horns and the playful noise of children. It all sounded quite normal, yet a strange acid in his throat reminded him that things were actually very not normal. 

Coming into a seated position on his bed, he felt a sharp pain against his chest. Placing a hand against his dull throbbing, he found it caused an even worse ripple of shocking pain. The memory came back hazy, like a film developed hastily and without experience. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out and received no response.

He remembered Crowley, he remembered being unable to move, and he remembered…

“Crowley!” He scanned his room and strained his ears to hear a reply. 

Raising from his bed, he found he was still in his outfit from the night before, shoes, jacket, and all. It did raise his curiosity even further but he pushed it aside. The section of the puzzle that was most developed from what happened last night all created an image of Crowley. 

He rushed down to the bookshop, all the while noticing the strange weakness in his knees. Finding his mobile phone discarded by the barely touched sushi, he dialed the number and waited. When Crowley picked up, he heard more static than he did his friend.

“Crowley, we need to talk about last night,” Aziraphale spoke into the rectangular device. 

Crowley's voice came in small pops and spurts.“Wha-What? You are...up...service...shoddy...angel?”

“Where are you now?”

“Azira...I’ll...around dark...two days…”

Aziraphale pressed the phone closer to his ear.“What?”

The interference buzzed louder and he could faintly hear Crowley yelling into the phone. “Home...two…’ays...phale!”

The connection died to a loud click. When Aziraphale tried to redial the number, the call was dropped almost immediately. He stared at his phone for a long while, wondering if it was worth the risk of miracling it. 

At least the phone call gave him a confirmation that Crowley was still off on his important adventure to get the important plant. If he was halfway around the world, there was no way he could have been in his bedroom last night. 

“Just a dream, a silly human dream,” Aziraphale convinced himself, carrying on with making his morning tea in the middle afternoon. 

This was a good tactic, and he continued it most of the day in the book shop, but he couldn’t deny the lingering pain against his chest. He pushed the thought away as long as he could, but when it truly did not subside, he took a moment to excuse himself away from the counter to the bathroom, another room he only occupied when a customer informed him he was low on his pretty smelling soap shaped like seasonal flowers. 

Although it took considerable effort to undress, he felt it was needed. Removing his bowtie and unbuttoning down to his stomach, Aziraphale told himself he was making a deal out of nothing. Peering into the mirror, he pushed aside the fabric to discover two very grim and dark marks on his chest. The marks were a violent wine-shade that slowly faded to ruddy orange. 

Aziraphale did not need to test the marks, but for that last bit of total understanding needed, he placed his left palm against the right bruise and found that it was a close fit. As if the marks came from two hands pressing against his body, holding him down, revoking his right to movement…

“This is ridiculous,” He huffed, and with a quick touch to each mark, healed the painful smears on his body away. “I must have injured myself in my sleep.”

Although to be completely honest, he knew that sounded even more ridiculous than the truth.


	2. In Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: This chapter depicts graphic scenes of physical, emotional, and sexual violence. Take care of yourselves.

A long, long, long, long, time ago, roughly 6,000 years, Crawly started his ascent up to Earth. It was not a long journey and could be done much more briskly, but he thought he might as well take in the scenery of his home before he headed all the way up. If he were to be the troublemaker of humankind, he doubted he would be in the depths of Hell all that often.

Well, not ALL the way up, as he had already come ALL the way down, so he was headed to that nice middle area. Rumor had it that something big was in the makings up on Earth. What that big thing was no one really knew, but it only seemed right to get into the thick of it.

His orders were, as followed: Get up there and make some trouble. The first step was easy, the second was figuring out what trouble meant in a world that had yet to see trouble. Crawly was particularly good at figuring out what trouble was, but more in that nagging way and not in that outright, no good, pure devilish way (no pun intended.) 

So he sauntered past the many fallen angels, a choir of voiceless monsters, and made sure to stop to toss a handful of treats to the hellhound pups. It was then Crawly spotted a large, iron casket being dragged across brimstone and fire by Hastur, another demon that Crawly tended to avoid as much as possible. Not that he didn't particularly like him, but he could be a bit clingy. 

“Can I get some help here?” Hastur wiped soot and sweat out of his eyes.

“Ah, sorry, but I got orders.” Crawly pointed upwards. “Causing havoc and chaos and all. Good luck with that, though.”

The iron casket buckled and a dark grumble emerged from behind the clasps. A single hand decorated with razor claws and scaly purple skin began to emerge from an opening. Very spooky, which Crawly did enjoy. Hastur gave it a solid ‘whack’ and it retreated back in with what sounded like a ‘yip!’

“What's in that thing?” He pointed as Hastur fought with the chains and lock. 

“One of the boss’ new inventions,” Hastur panted as he struggled to secure the casket. “I’m told that they will be a stealer of souls, each with the effectiveness of twenty standard demons. The best part is the poor sap is sleeping away their life when this fella is at work. I've also been it is done through...sexual means. Nasty work, very compelling, can’t wait to see it in action.”

Crawly sneered. That was not the soul-securing method he enjoyed nor particularly agreed with. The whole 'soul securing' idea was new and hadn't exactly been tried yet. They were working out the kinks. 

Before he could make a snide comment, the force of the creatures inside grew to an almighty amount, and with a single push, they tore apart the iron casket. The creatures were winged, a tangle of fur and scales, and mighty hideous. Hastur heaved as he reached out to catch them, but they managed to slip through his fingers. The two demons watched as the creatures flew in a cloud of purple mist towards Earth.

“Damn incubi...er, incubuses...whatever the hell they are!” Hastur threw the broken lock to the ground with a stomp of his heels.

Crawly blew out a hiss of embarrassment. “Oh, that is rotten luck, that is. Those buggers seem hard to catch. Going to need a big net. Well… I'm off.”

Hastur groaned and set off in the opposite direction to presumably grab a net. Crawly shrugged as it really wasn’t his dilemma. Deciding he had enough of his tour, he snapped his fingers. Moments later he was breaking through the cold dirt, his body molded into that of a snake, searching for a shiny red apple from some silly forbidden tree. It was almost as if someone wanted him to make some trouble. Ah, well, easy day.

***

By seven that evening, Aziraphale felt his eyes grow weary with a longing for sleep. For an angel that scarcely slept, he felt like he was doing it enough lately. He brought _The Happy Prince_ , the book he had been paging through the night prior, upstairs to keep his attention but found even that could not keep his attention.

“Must be something in the air,” Aziraphale yawned to himself, his hot cocoa lingering untouched.

The events of the night prior, or the dream of the night prior if you were to ask Aziraphale at that moment, had been forcefully secured in the back of his mind. On occasion throughout the day, he thought he could still feel the pressure of Crowley’s hand (no, not Crowley but just a figment of his dream.) 

The final determination was that the sushi was probably not as fresh as he had anticipated, and he was already penning a lightly toned but outspoken letter to the business. He did not want to upset them, as he still needed his weekly roll, but he wanted them to know the importance of proper handling of food with raw fish.

Thinking over what his letter would say, Aziraphale rested in bed. He had managed to change into his favorite striped pajamas with the bold being oatmeal and the thin being beautiful lilac. His dearest friend, Crowley, asked if he was trying to be a flower patch when he had purchased the set during one of their lazy weekend shopping trips, but Aziraphale just figured he was jealous as his pajamas were habitually whatever undergarments he had on. 

Between recalling the memory of that sunny shopping trip and the letter to the sushi takeaway, Aziraphale’s eyes closed and stayed closed.

Aziraphale could not tell you what time he left the waking world into the sleeping world, but he could tell you that when he woke the small, battery operated alarm clock read it was nearly half past one in the morning. He also couldn’t tell you what woke him up, but he could tell you that Crowley standing at the foot of the bed was what was keeping him awake.

“Crowley?” He could scarcely hear himself over the humming of late night cars.

“Angel,” Crowley replied, unmoved.

The curtains were open, allowing a sufficient amount of light into the room. Crowley wore all black, as per usual, and stood against the foot of his bed with his hands resting against the mattress. 

“Are you back from your trip so soon?” Aziraphale asked as he pushed himself up and off the bed. “You could have rang before you stopped over, you know.”

Crowley said nothing in return nor moved from the foot of the bed. 

“How was your trip?” Aziraphale reached for his slippers that were placed just under the bed. “Did you get your plant?”

Still silence. 

Aziraphale paused, slippers in hand. “Crowley?”

In a flash, Crowley was at his side with his fists gripping the edges of his pajama top. Aziraphale steadied himself, releasing the slippers, but could not stop Crowley from shredding the top, buttons popping around the room. The shirt slipped off his shoulders and fell to his feet.

“Before you speak, angel,” Crowley said as he lightly ran his finger down Aziraphale’s chest, down his stomach, and ending at the rim of his pajama bottoms. “I’m not up for a repeat of last night. Boring, right?”

Aziraphale found himself speechless.

“Oh, good.” Crowley lightly tapped him on the nose. “Now, where should we start?” 

Aziraphale felt the sweat fall down his brow although the night air was chilly. He moved away from Crowley, unsure if this was another dream. This wasn't Crowley's behavior at all. He stepped as far back as he could until his bare back hit the smoothness of his wall. Crowley followed, pinning him into place with his hands on either side of his body.

“Kisses are nice, aren’t they?” Crowley was so close Aziraphale could smell an earthy scent he hadn’t associated with him before. “Would you like to do that?”

“I...I...I would like to talk,” Aziraphale stuttered. “Yes, lets just, um, let us just talk.”

Crowley’s face fell. “I said no boring. That is boring. Try again.”

Aziraphale ran through all possible ways out of this situation as he could. In all their years, he could usually reason with Crowley. Why should now be any different? 

“A drink then, hm?” Aziraphale attempted to persuade Crowley to step aside with a gentle nudge but found himself suddenly faint at their touch. He tried again but could not budge Crowley aside.

The slap came without warning and one of Crowley’s nails caught him across the jaw and cut through his skin. Aziraphale tried to bring his hand to wound but his wrists were caught by Crowley, ensnaring them above Aziraphale’s head with a tight hold. With his free hand, Crowley ran his fingertips across the gash.

“You know, I always thought angels couldn’t bleed?” Crowley’s words emerged slimy as he watched the dark blood slide down his fingertips. “You surprise me, angel. How much more blood do you have in you? Let's have a taste.”

His bare back was cold against the wall, but with the small amount of effort he possessed, he had to fight back. 

Aziraphale knew this was his moment to take a chance better than any other. As Crowley bite down against his shoulder, Aziraphale pulled his hand as hard as he could from Crowley’s grasp and across his face powerful enough to knock the dark glasses away and tear the teeth away from his flesh. He felt his skin break and the warmth begin to stream down his arm, but the satisfaction was stronger than the discomfort.

The dark glasses flew to the wooden floor with a crack that webbed across the right lens.

Crowley pulled away casually, giving Aziraphale time to soak in what he had done. He had speculated but not prepared for what he was seeing. Crowley’s eyes were black without a hint of color. Dark lavender circles encompassed the eyes, making them look sunken and gaunt. The suspicion turned to confirmation and Aziraphale let out the breath he had been holding in his shoulders.

“You are not Crowley.” Aziraphale could not stop the joy in his face. “I see you for what you truly are. You are an imposter.”

The demon's face was stoic but electric. “What did you say?”

Aziraphale repeated his claim, doing his best to look brave in this defenseless state. The demon, one who alleged to be his dearest and most treasured friend, took two steps forward to once again snatch Aziraphale’s hands. From the demon’s touch, he felt his body grow weak and his knees quake from his effort to stand. 

“Vile thing!” The demon hissed and pulled him away from the wall. “You don’t know what you see. You only see what I want you to see.”

The demon using the form of his dear Crowley guided him to the bed and let him fall against it. Pulling his belt from around his waist, the demon tied Aziraphale’s hand together. With a flick of his fingers, the belt tightened to mold around the skin of the angel’s wrists. Aziraphale fussed but did his best to keep a tight lip.

“You see me.” The demon used the belt to pull Aziraphale into a seated position on the bed. “You will see me until your days are damned, and you fall fast and hard to the floor of Hell. I will be your memory as you wander lost through the muck of the souls. I will be-”

With a sure kick, Aziraphale’s foot met the demon’s abdomen, causing it to double over in pain. A monstrous howl erupted from its mouth and for a time he thought he saw the demon’s form blur and shake. Hurriedly, Aziraphale rolled onto his stomach and used a great burst of energy to crawl towards the other side of the bed. If he could get to the window, he could open it and flee down the fire exit. If he could just get there, if he could just make it across the bed. 

If only he could convince his wings to emerge so he could fly far away, further than the highest mountains or the deepest ocean. Anywhere but here. The window was less than an arm’s length away. All he had to do was reach out to touch it.

“No, you don't, you wicked angel.” 

Aziraphale felt his strength wither away as the demon seized him by the hips and pulled him back. His gasps came out in exhausted ‘nos’ as he felt his body dragged away from the window. The belt around his wrists stiffened and he could feel the sharp string of skin breaking. His legs gave way and did not move as he wished. Like the night before, he lost all ability to his body. His head lopped downwards, forcing his body to fall forward. The quilt was cold against his cheek, the most innocent of blessings he could find as the demon drew his hips up from the bed. He just couldn’t physically fight back any longer.

“Submit to me, angel.” The voice was low and hit at his nape. “We can leave this place. We can be done with all this but you must submit to me.”

Aziraphale said nothing and held his focus against the stitching of the cream quilt. It was the first time he ever truly noticed the thread holding all the fabric together was a brilliant red. If he recalled, he got this quilt as a gift from someone when he moved in but his mind wouldn’t let him recall who it was from. He gnawed his lip when he felt his pajama bottoms being yanked off his body. He watched as the lilac striped pajamas landed at the head of the bed, only inches away.

A bellowing growl echoed across the room. “Angel, do not scorn me.”

The sound of a zipper and something falling to the floor was the only noise. The demon forced their hips to meet and Aziraphale felt a hardness against him. He may have been an angel, pure in a sexless-by-choice sense, but aware of what was about to happen. He was not innocent to the evils of this world. He witnessed and grew sick over the number of atrocities humans had committed against each other. The Earth, for all expectations and purposes, was horrid at his core.

Yet he saw beauty. Somewhere, between sins and free will, humans created beautiful things. It was the beauty that kept him here for 6,000 years and it would keep him here tonight.

In a shallow breath, he answered. “I see wine at the Ritz.”

“What?”

“I see ducks. I see petits fours and late Sunday rainstorms and books.” 

The demon sighed. “So be it.” 

The first thrust happened so swiftly that the pain did not register until the second. It was a pressure he hadn’t known paired with splitting pain. It caused tears to build at the corner of his eyes and an intense burning up through his spine. This was not a sensation he knew and not one he ever wished to experience. His earthly body told him to fight against, get away from this stretching fire but his body did not respond. Instead, he clenched his teeth and bore it.

“I see hot cocoa,” He choked, focusing on the red thread of the quilt as the furiousness of the demon’s thrusts swelled. “I see...I see flowers in the spring and snow in the winter.”

“Submit, angel.” 

The demon pulled him closer by wrapping his right arm under his stomach while running his left hand down Aziraphale’s back, leaving deep wounds in its path. Aziraphale hissed at the tearing of his flesh but did not let his focus be diverted. This seemed to anger the demon, as his thrusts into Aziraphale became erratic and frenzied. The longer the invasion of his body happened, the more tired he grew. It was horrible exhaustion that seemed to start at his core and work its way out to each limb.

“I see first edition prints.” Aziraphale felt his eyes grow heavy. “ I see...I see…”

He could feel the blood running down his legs, warm and sticky and uncomfortable. His body was limp and unresponsive. Not at the forefront of his mind, but he did wonder if he wouldn't just break in half at any time. Somewhere in the distance, in a place that seemed far from here, he could hear a chant. Submit, submit, submit.

_Focus on something beautiful, Aziraphale_ , he told himself. _Focus on something good in this world._

“I see…”Aziraphale’s eyes closed as his face was driven roughly into the mattress. “I see...”

The chant slowly became a lullaby that lured him into a heavy sleep.

***  
Aziraphale woke hours later on his stomach and deep into the afternoon of an unwieldy world. The damage of the night before was there as if to tell him there were no excuses this time. His body felt cumbersome to the point he did not bother to get up for the day. All around him was the stench of iron and rot and he wondered if somehow this smell would be with him forever. Crowley had once said he smelled like the seaside and taffy, but now…

“That wasn’t Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered into the quilt with the red thread. “That wasn’t Crowley.”

His left wrist was haphazardly left near him, unbound and free. With a groan, Aziraphale brought the wrist to his eyes. Deep welts encircled them from where the belt had been and a bracelet of dried dark blood was left. Heaving, he brought his other hand to meet the wound and tried to miracle it away. He managed to only just lighten the aching redness before the attempt left him breathless and drained. The energy to heal just wasn’t in him.

“That wasn’t Crowley.” The air was warm that day against his exposed body.

He thought he heard his phone ringing somewhere downstairs. The very thought of movement was too much for him. He tried to adjust his weight but felt the ripping pain in his lower body, causing him to let out a cry of shock. A healing wound tore open and the room spun. 

“That wasn’t…”He murmured into the quilt, interrupted by what he thought was a series of loud knock.

Aziraphale knew that he was late opening the store, but only let his thoughts go that far. To add to the consistent knocking, the phone began to ring. And then it rang again, and again, and again, and may have kept ringing, but Aziraphale allowed himself the guilty release of rest from the stirring world. The phone and the knocking would have to wait.

***

Aziraphale woke that night in someone’s arms. His own arms were wrapped loosely around the person’s neck and his legs were wrapped around their waist. His hips and bottom hurt as he sat up but his body was pressed against the other's frame, allowing for a bit of relief. His head felt swamped and confused while resting firmly against the person’s cheek.

“Look at me, angel.” The voice said. “Look at your Crowley.”

In his mind, he saw Crowley guiding him through the new world after The Great Flood. He saw Crowley in Paris, in England, in Japan, in America. 

Aziraphale’s head slumped back. “Crowley?”

The moon illuminated Crowley’s bare shoulders, dipping into his sharp collarbones. His face was cast in shadow but the outline of the glasses remain. In the haze, Aziraphale saw the familiar face of his friend.

“Yes, angel, it's me.”

A deep smog heavier than any he had experienced clouded his eyes. His body hurt, but the coolness of Crowley’s bare body against his own helped ease the flame. There was static between them, strong and seemingly safe.

“My head hurts awful.” Aziraphale felt like he was gliding through crowded waters with each word. “I think...I think something terrible has happened to me, Crowley. I have these memories, really horrible memories.”

Crowley ran the back of his hand down Aziraphale’s back. “Shhh, my angel. Listen to me.”

“You don’t understand, my dear boy.” A deep lump in his throat made his words crack and split.

Crowley left a soft kiss into Aziraphale’s hair before guiding his face to rest against the smooth skin of his shoulder. Aziraphale let himself nestle against the crook of Crowley’s neck, lured by the soft drumming of Crowley’s voice.

“You are safe with me,” Crowley’s whispered. “You are safe as long as you are with me and only me.”

Crowley’s hands were cool as they persuaded him from the solace of Crowley’s body back into the night. Aziraphale’s breath felt shallow but steady as Crowley brought their foreheads together. Crowley smelled of cold air and rain. Their noses brushed as Crowley tightened his hold on him. 

The kiss came softly, almost as if it was an accident. Crowley’s lips felt proper and right against his own that were cracked and dry. When Crowley pulled away, Aziraphale felt part of him go with him. The skin on the back of his neck stood in the chill that was left behind. When Crowley kissed him again, Aziraphale returned it. 

Their lips lightly played, a gentleness that ate away at Aziraphale’s aching body. He brought a hand to Crowley’s face to calm himself while the other clung to his shoulder. When Crowley ran his hands through his tousled and matted hair, he felt his breath hitch.

When the kiss broke, he felt consumed, as if parts of him were being pulled out. Guilty, he didn’t wish to stop.

“Again,” He asked in a breathy but frantic voice. “Again.”

Allowing his friend to guide him onto his back, he felt relief when their lips met again. Crowley’s body laid on top of his own and he would use his legs to ensure Crowley wouldn’t leave him alone. Aziraphale let his hands explore his friends exposed back and shoulders as their lips meshed, driving each other into breathlessness. 

The haze in his head started to create edges, and when he opened his eyes, he noticed the clouds were lifting. A dark blur to his side caught his attention. A strange smell surrounded him that made his stomach churn. Crowley noticed his sudden hesitation.

“Listen to me,” Crowley whispered in his honey laced voice against Aziraphale’s lips. “You will see only me and we will walk through the halls of Hell, my angel. You will see me and wish that you could be all that I desire you to be. I could be yours forever, angel. All you have to do is submit to me.”

The clouds began to lift enough for Aziraphale to see the destruction beneath him. They were on his bed, high above the ground, but he saw the chaos that had happened. Dark swipes stained his white bed linens near his face. The night before became all too real. He remembered why there was a throbbing soreness in his body and bloodstained against his thighs.

Crowley’s hold of his shoulders tightened. “Did you hear me, angel? We can have everything forever. You just need to say it. Say you will submit to me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes adjusted enough to see where the glass' right lens was cracked from where they landed on the floor.

Dismayed, Aziraphale spoke.“You are not Crowley.”

The demon trembled in his embrace, its image seemingly scattering and a piece near his forehead fading away. In its place was a putrid scent, moving and alive and monstrous. Aziraphale let go in time for the demon to tear his body away. When his head felt as clear as it could possibly be, he was able to move enough to watch the demon’s actions.

The demon panted as he circled the bed, his steps rough and harsh. Aziraphale heard their thunderous stomping and hoped he would just fall through his ceiling, through the hard earth, and back to wherever it came from. The taste on his lips was bitter.

“You are stubborn in your arrogance,” The demon hissed, finally stopping near his nightstand. “Foolish and childish. I was giving you all I had, angel.”

The demon picked up a book left discarded nights before. He examined book over, appearing to examine its title and weight. Once pleased with his study of the book, the demon brought it down with such force against Aziraphale’s body that something in Aziraphale’s shoulder snapped. The force was sudden and jolted him into a furious spasm.

Heaven knew Aziraphale had tried so vigorously to not appear weak, but he no longer had the stamina to keep it back. The book met his body again, against his hip, against his face, against his stomach, against his legs...repeatedly and with such might that it only ended when the book’s cover split from its spine and the pages fell like rain across the room.

When the blows subsided and the room became still, Aziraphale realized his cries of agony was the only sound in the room.

“Yes, angel,” The demon snarled. “Sing to me.”

The demon tossed the empty cover next to Aziraphale’s side, the title revealed as _The Happy Prince_. One of Aziraphale’s favorite first editions. He shakily brought his left hand to his mouth and wiped away wetness that appeared to be blood. His right arm hung useless at the joint and the impact left his stomach churning.

When Aziraphale felt himself being moved to the top of the bed, he couldn’t fight it. The demon tied his hands with his belt and tossed him onto his stomach. The bundle his tired hands created was uncomfortably shoved against his chest. His weight was uneven with the lack of support on the right side of his body, which had taken the brunt of the beating. He watched as the demon paced the length of the bed before making a decision to crouch near so their faces met. 

“I tire of this, angel,” The demon told Aziraphale. “I tried to reason with you and I never reason with anyone. I gave you chances, and you failed to take them. I gave you a choice and you chose wrong.”

Aziraphale was tired. So very very tired. “I will not submit to you.”

The demon nodded sorrowfully. “Yes, sadly I see. Oh well, angel. What I cannot get willingly, I can get by force.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the clock face read fifteen minutes after three. The night sky was not so dark and the air was not so cool. 

“Now sleep,” The demon instructed and Aziraphale did.

***

When he became conscious, he thought he must be on a ship in the sea, for the horrid swaying was like a mighty storm, blinding and strong, back and forth. Repetitive and forceful. He tried to reach out his hand to steady himself but found they were still tied together with the belt under his body. Peeling his eyes open, he found the familiar linens of his bed, the stained quilt under his body and his pajama bottoms with the lilac stripes from the night before only inches away. Shadows from the city in early morning splayed across the fabric.

One breath, two breaths, three breaths…

It was the first recognition of sound he had when he woke. Breathing was such human activity. Such a simple act, such an important act. He thought he hadn’t needed it. After all, wasn’t he an angel? Or he once believed he was. He didn’t really feel like anything now.

The swaying continued and he felt sick.

Everything was burning in the cool air. Starting from his feet and raising to his head, his body was engulfed in a flame worse than fire. Aziraphale tried to dig his face deeper into the quilt but felt himself being pulled back by his hair. The air was thick that hit his exposed neck like a croquet mallet and he found himself struggling to reclaim his lungs. 

The harder he tugged forward, the worse the intenseness became. Sensation came back to his legs, and he felt them parted. A body was between them, knees on top of his thighs to hold them down. The swaying and the torment connected and he realized what this debauchery was.

“Please, stop,” He murmured, fairly certain that the demon did not hear this. “Please.”

The demon’s claws, thick as building nails and just as sharp, dug deep into the flesh of his hip and forced himself even further inside. The hand that tugged on his hair tightened its grip. In a sad attempt, Aziraphale tried to miracle himself away but found he couldn’t even start to remember how. He wanted to be just himself again, alone and untainted. He didn’t want to be trapped under the hold and use of someone else. 

_Keep breathing, Aziraphale_ , he told himself. 

One breath, two breaths, three breaths, counting breaths until he fell into a dark sleep to the rhyme of the sea.

***

A trip to the Americas is always a mixed bag. Some trips Crowley had a wonderful flight filled with quiet people who left him alone with his Walkman and his Queen’s Greatest Hits. Some flights he happened to sit next to the overtly religious zealot who talked his ear off about the coming of the antichrist (which they must have clearly missed as it already happened.)

This trip happened to be mostly uneventful, besides the very strange phone call when he was on top of a mountain.

The plant he came to purchase and then smuggle onto the plane and back into England only grew on the tippy top of a mountain range on the Eastern coast, which he learned did not always have the best reception for his mobile phone.

The call was from Aziraphale, which honestly was the only person who called him and the only person he called, but it was disjointed and broken. He faintly heard his friend mentioned something about a night or something. He only started to fret the next day, when he was happily in reception but unable to reach Aziraphale. 

He knew that if Aziraphale was out, he would at least return his call, but when he hadn’t late into the night, past the time his favorite sushi restaurant closed, he knew something was wrong. 

The plane trip back was the longest flight of his life. As soon as he landed, he made arrangements for his smuggled plant to be delivered to his flat by a couple of shady but money hungry teenagers and he headed into the night to Aziraphale’s shop. 

When he arrived at the shop, the first thing he noticed, well, more like smelled, was the stiffening suggestion of demonic forces. A bit like over tart berries that were left in a compost pile for too long. Concern almost instantly jumped into his throat. A lesser demon may have had difficulties getting past another demon’s attempt at claiming territory, but Crowley was not a lesser demon.

Opening the door, Crowley stepped into the familiar bookstore. It all looked the same, books scattered on shelves, fancy trinkets and furniture that Aziraphale had picked up through the years. His friend was a packrat to boot and have a terrible time letting anything go.

Once he had determined Aziraphale was nowhere in the storefront, he made his way to the stairs. With each step, he felt the scent of hell grow stronger, and his fear grew as well when he could not sense the lightness that usually inhabited this home. 

Almost as if he had a map, he knew where Aziraphale was. A low voice escaped from the closed door at the end of the hall. Crowley held back his intentions to run into the room in a blaze of hellfire. Demons were tricky bastards, he should know. Creeping to the door, he placed his ear against it and listened. The voice was stifled, but he knew it wasn’t Aziraphale.

Pushing the door open as noiselessly as he could, his eyes scanned the room until he found a figure, its back turned to him, looming over something. The figure was at the end of Aziraphale’s bed, its shoulders back and its hands into fists. The figure spoke, only this time its voice was not muffled by the solid oak door. Crowley could only hear a single word. Submit.

He had seen enough. Crowley stepped into the room without bothering to hide his footsteps. The figure reeked of something that crawled out of the worst depths, putrid and sulfuric. It was time it left Aziraphale’s home.

“You are not welcomed here,” Crowley stood tall. “You do not-”

His voice faltered and faded as the figure turned and stepped aside, giving him access to the sight only moments before he was unaware. 

Aziraphale, his dearest and oldest friend, was on the cold wood floor. He was nude, giving Crowley the opportunity to see the bruises and scars. The warm glow that used to surround the angel’s body was gone, replaced by an almost mortal like presentation. His friend had certainly seen better days and it tore at Crowley.

A harsh snort turned his attention to the demon and found himself staring back at himself, or an almost version of himself. Pieces of the demon seemed to have fallen, large crevices revealed its skin, porous and scaled. Its eyes were dark and sunken and seemed out of place upon a face that looked so much like his own. Crowley knew what this thing was...an incubus.

“Crowley!” The incubus spoke as if it were chewing bricks. “I’ve heard so much about you. What a surprise.”

“Step away from him.” Crowley kept his voice firm.

The incubus grinned with a mouth full of black sharp teeth. “ I’ve taken his purity as an angel. I’ve made him weak and powerless. In hours we shall have him.”

Crowley felt an anger boil in him as he repeated himself. “Step away from him.”

The incubus, still grinning, shook his head. “This one is mine, Crowley. Pity, you spent millennium with this easy conquest and never once had a taste. You waste time but all I do is take. I’ve taken centuries of his time, tore the years from his body. Time, my friend, time is a glorious meal.”

Crowley watched Aziraphale’s gaunt body, discarded and at the moment forgotten, drag in uneven desperate breaths. His skin was grey and blotchy, stained and unclean. His hair was patted against his forehead and his eyes were gazing at the floor almost lifeless. Deep scars marred his body.

“Step away from my friend.” Crowley felt the fire building in his veins, his chest beginning to heave in anger and growing panic. “Or I swear I’ll send you to a fate worse than you could imagine.”

“If you wish,” The incubus’s form began to fade. “It is too late for him, anyway. He doesn’t have fight left.”

Although Crowley was more than prepared for a battle, the incubus disappeared in a cloud of purple smoke. He raced to where the thing once stood but could not catch it. In a flash, the incubus was gone and all that was left was the destruction it had created. 

A soft groan took Crowley’s attention away from the beast and back to the angel. Aziraphale was still on the ground, having been unmoved from when Crowley first entered the room. He immediately fell to his knees and crawled to his friend.

“Angel, are you alright?” His voice trembled and he allowed it.

“I will not submit.” It appeared Aziraphale’s dry lips struggled to make the words, his eyes not leaving the floor. “I see ducks, I see hot cocoa, I see-”

The angel rambled on, saying things Crowley did not understand.

“Aziraphale, let me help you.” Using slow movements, Crowley reached out to touch his friend. “I can’t heal you, but I can help.”

The angel pushed his body back against the edge of the bed as far as he possibly could. “Please leave me be.”

“Aziraphale…”

“Leave me!” Aziraphale demanded in a hoarse voice.

Crowley stood up and backed away from him. Seemingly satisfied, Aziraphale’s breath settled as his body relaxed. He waited for a moment, what for he wasn’t quite sure, before heading downstairs. 

As he raced to find wherever Aziraphale kept bandages, his mind tried to wander into the ‘what happened’ part of his mind. What happened those few days he was gone? What happened to his friend?

“Stop,” Crowley told himself as he dug through drawers of useless knick-knacks and baubles. “You will drive yourself mad and right now is not the best time to be mad.”

Vodka was hidden in the bottom drawer of his desk, which Crowley took a pull from before stuffing it into this jacket pocket. He found a first aid kit hidden in the bathroom. Crowley could remember Aziraphale picking it up one night at the corner shop, telling him: “You know, humans are so clumsy. Never know when this might be needed.”

“You were right.” Crowley tried to laugh, but it tasted acidic on his tongue. 

Grabbing a few towels, he headed back upstairs in a hurry. When he got to the top, he slowed his steps, making sure to make his presence light and mindful. The room, including Aziraphale, was precisely how he left it. The angel was still on the floor, quiet and settled and his eyes closed.

Crowley knelt down by Aziraphale again and lined up the kit, towels, and vodka. He found quite a thick roll of bandages and other dressings. Throughout his years he had worked with enough humans to figure out how to deal with injuries. He would just treat celestial injuries the same.

“I’m going to begin,” Crowley whispered to Aziraphale. 

The angel said nothing and Crowley took caution when as he placed his fingers against Aziraphale’s skin. When he did not pull back, Crowley took it as a sign to continue. The angel whimpered when he poured the vodka on the burns on his wrists but did not pull away. 

The wounds were bad, no, the wounds were unimaginable. Burns circled his wrist, which Crowley deduced meant his friend had been tried at some point. _Don’t think about it, Crowley_ he told himself as he worked. Deep, digging scars littered Aziraphale’s shoulder and his back was lined with long marks. He could bandage the open wounds, but he wasn’t sure what he would do about the bruises, or worse, the damage he could not see.

“Is this a trick?” Aziraphale’s voice sounded bleak. “Fool me once and all.” 

“It’s me, angel,” Crowley said and was surprised when Aziraphale winced and his body tensed.

“Take off your glasses.”

A simple enough request, Crowley took them off and stuffed them into his pocket. He was relieved when Aziraphale seemed to relax.

“I need to move, er, shift you a bit...if that's alright,” Crowley stuttered as he motioned towards the scars on his back he couldn’t reach.

It took a moment, but Aziraphale eventually allowed it. Crowley gently rolled Aziraphale towards his lap, giving him a chance to look over the rest of the wounds. He was not expecting his hand to come back soaked, his palms feeling the stinging, slippery warmth that had come from Aziraphale. Crowley looked at the blood left behind, bright red and fresh, before noticing where that hand had been placed.

“Oh, Aziraphale,” Crowley stammered, pained by the beginning realizations of what his dearest friend has been through. 

There were no words that could be said to change what they both knew. Aziraphale finally looked up to him, his eyes glazed and dull. 

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale told him in a soft breath. “I”m just fine.” 

The twinge of hurt in Crowley’s stomach turned to anger and he didn’t want to be on the floor any longer. Gently Crowley lifted Aziraphale from the floor, letting the remnants of the violence that had been left behind spoil him. He tried to bring Aziraphale to the bed but was met with unexpected panic.

Aziraphale’s body, beaten and used, fought against his own. Alarmed, Crowley tried to whisper words of comfort but found it was not helpful. With a strength Crowley may have known days before, the angel struggled his way out of Crowley’s arms and landed against the wood floor with a soft drop. 

In a frenzy, Crowley reached out and grabbed Aziraphale around his waist, pulling him close. He noticed for the first time, how different his friend’s body felt. His skin felt loose against his bones, his ribs protruding and his right arm limp against his side. It truly was as if the incubus drained the very life out of the angel.

“I’m through with your disguises!” Aziraphale fought against his hold. “I won’t have it!”

“Shhh, it's alright,” Crowley said over Aziraphale’s shouts. “Just steady now…”

Crowley watched the slits in Aziraphale’s back emerge and knew better than to keep holding on. He let go just in time for the wings to unfold and spread across the room. Crowley covered his eyes, expecting a vibrant glow and heavenly sparkle, as usual, but when his eyes did not start to water from the light, he realized something was off. 

Wings that would have spanned the room now appeared dull and lackluster. Their brilliant white had faded into a mucky cream and large patches of feathers were missing. The feathers that were still there soon became dirty as they were dragged through the blood that soaked the floorboards near the angel’s feet. It did not stop Aziraphale from using them to cover himself as he cowered at the end of the room. If Crowley listened close enough, he could hear Aziraphale pleading to not take him back to bed.

The scene was pitiful and something in Crowley absolutely broke. 

The wings only lasted a few moments before they disappeared, leaving Aziraphale on the floor shivering and groaning. While Crowley could not fix the mess, he could find a clean sheet, pull it over his best friend, carry him down the stairs to the front door, and hope that the people of London were not paying any attention. 

“I’m taking you to my flat, Aziraphale,” Crowley told the angel, who was not looking at him but towards the door. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Crowley was not sure if he was sleeping or avoiding the street. His friend felt weightless in his arms. Counting down from three, Crowley opened the door with a swift kick. 

The streets that night were empty and the only vehicle was the Bentley, waiting like a faithful getaway car. Crowley questioned the silence but didn’t pause on it. Instead, he opened the passenger with the toe of his boot and placed his best friend inside. Crowley gave one last look towards the upper flat of the bookshop and swore he saw a haze of purple. In seconds he was speeding away, marveled at the lack of humans and completely unaware their path was not carved safely by chance, but by the workings of someone above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you or a loved one has been a victim of sexual violence and need to talk, please reach out to you local support agency or contact RAINN, the national sexual assault hotline. 
> 
> For those sticking around, see ya in Part 3.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know why this is going to get so dark. I adore fluff and stuff but apparently, I needed something with more pain? Gosh, I'm not sure, maybe I'm just a sucker for hurt/comfort. Anyway, part 2 is considerably longer and has the not so nice stuff packed in there. So, if you are in for that ride, see you in part 2.


End file.
